Habits
by gettinhellaturnt
Summary: Dan has OCD.


Title: Habits

Summary: Dan has OCD

Words: 1,153

TW: OCD, self harm, self hate, bullying, suicidal thoughts

I really hope I did a good job of portraying OCD, because I researched it a lot, so I hope it was accurate!

_On, off. On, off. On, off. One, two, three, four. Five, six. An even ten? Seven, eight, nine ten. _Okay. I opened and closed the bedroom door, an even ten times. Phil, my wonderful boyfriend, sat there patiently as I performed my stupid rituals. He obviously found them annoying, but how could he not? But he still stuck around, he still put up with me, he still loved me, despite the fact that I'm a fucking mess. He loves me regardless of the fact I have to do everything perfectly or I'll be thrown into a fit of panic, and rage. It wasn't something I could help; I have OCD. My medicine is shit, and it barely works, and when I do take it, it makes me feel sick and tired, and I hate it. Every day, it was always; the lights ten times, the doors ten times, the cupboards twelve times, the fridge six times, all the drawers I opened throughout the day four times, and I had to open at least six drawers a day, and if more, it had to be an even number. I had to kiss Phil just right, and I would kiss him until both our lips went numb, and he couldn't kiss my cheek without having to kiss the other to make it symmetrical. I was disgusted in myself, why was I like this? Because of my mental illness. But why did it have to be me, why did it have to be so life consuming, so annoying, so...severe?

I've been this way since I was little. I always had to make sure my toys were aligned properly, and I had the neatest handwriting, desk, and locker out of everybody throughout all my schooling. People found my anxiousness over things being perfect and symmetrical hilarious. Kids would touch me and I'd freak out because they only touched one, they had to touch the other one, and they wouldn't. It made me panic, and it felt like I was drowning. I started to cut myself, and my thighs are still littered with scars, all straight and aligned. I stopped, because it made me even more stressed to try and make them all the same length and depth and make sure they all bled the same. And I nearly passed out a few times because I couldn't only cut one leg.

Phil met me when I was at the worst of my depression. He hugged me and I pulled away because it had been too messy. He had let me, because I told him about my OCD and he respected and understood that I needed everything to be perfect. Now, he still respects it, but it's obvios he finds it the most annoying thing ever. But for some reason, he's still here with me, because he loves me. How, I don't know. I'm a disaster. I'm a mess. And no matter how hard I try, I can't fix myself. Phil is too perfect, and he deserves so much better. But he claims he wants me, and only me, despite my annoying habits. How I repeat words because I can't control how many times I say it, and I can't do so many things because it makes me stressed and anxious and Phil has to calm me from panic attacks. I can't help it, and it makes me hate myself more than I already do.

I remember the time I first told Phil about my OCD, and he was shocked and concerned for me. He told me he didn't think any differently, he still loved me, he would try and help me through my worst times as best as he can. That's exactly what he does. He holds me just right, his arms wrapped around me just right, because he knows if it isn't right, he'll only make me panic more. He tells me he loves me, that he loves me even though I'm like this. And it calms me down, it truly does, but it's not enough, because whatever I panicked over _wasn't right. _

It wasn't right and it won't be right and I can't take the fact that it isn't right, and it breaks me. I die a little more inside with every panic attack I have. I don't know how much more I can take, honestly. I've only been alive this long for Phil. But I think he might even be growing sick of me...

I could see him roll his eyes when I repeated things, and I couldn't blame him. I was annoying and what I did was pointless, but to me it felt so important, I couldn't help it.

I could hear the annoyance in his voice when he asked me if I was done flickering the lights so we could sleep.

I could feel him growing more and more tired of how fucked up I am.

I was sick of it too, and I wanted out of it. Medicine didn't work. And I couldn't ignore it, because it gnawed at my mind and drove me insane until I fixed what was wrong or panicked over it. I knew there was only one way out, and that was death. But I had promised Phil he'd stay alive for him.

"I'm sorry." I said to him one night.

"For what?" he had asked.

"For being so fucked up. I'm sorry, I can't control it, and my medicine doesn't work and I can't help all the annoying things I do and-" He cut me off by kissing my lips, and they were aligned messily but I didn't care in that moment, because he was kissing me. I pulled away when the feeling of unaligned lips began to drive me insane.

"Don't apologize for being you." he whispered, his hands resting on both my shoulders, so the feeling was balanced. "Sure, I don't honestly enjoy you flicking the lights ten times, but it's who you are, and I want you. Even if you had to flick the lights a hundred times, I'd still wait up for you to come to bed. Your habits are part of you, and I love every single part of you, because you're you." I smiled, wiping the tears from eyes.

"Thank you. I love you too." I leaned in to kiss him again, this time our lips were perfect, and we kissed harder than we ever had, longer than we ever had, and more passionately than we ever had.

One month later, I had better medication that helped me control my impulses and anxiety, so I had less of a need to do my annoying little habits. I lowered the number of times I did things, and I didn't throw fits as much, and I could kiss Phil without freaking out if our lips weren't exactly perfect. Sometimes I still got bad, but Phil was there through it all to help me.


End file.
